The Piggy Farmer (The Barrington Patch Book 3), Emmy Ellis [electric book reader txt] 📗

showing him her soft side. She couldn’t allow this conversation to continue so brought out her monster. “If you need to kill Jason, shoot him right in the eye. That’s got to hurt.” Like it hurt Vance Johnson when Brenda gouged his out with a key.

Jimmy winced. “Yeah.”

“He deserves all the pain coming his way, the sneaky little wanker.”

Buoyed by a fresh surge of adrenaline, she finished her drink and left Jimmy to it, driving to Mam’s where she’d fill in the ledger and finally get some sleep, even if it was only a nap. Tomorrow lunchtime, she’d visit Hua, a woman who’d be mourning not only her son but her husband, her only close relative left Yenay, her daughter.

Tough. Zhang Wei should have known his place. It was his fault this had happened.

Pushy bastard.

Chapter Five

The text bleep going off on the work burner pulled Brenda Nolan from sleep, propelling her into an early morning she didn’t want to see. Who the chuff was WhatsApping her at this time?

Cassie: Are you alone?

Brenda: Yes.

Cassie: I’m coming round. Now. Also alone.

That was all Brenda needed to know. Shit had probably gone down regarding Karen Scholes. Either that or there was news of Jason. Brenda had told Cassie all about his little scheme—always best to be upfront with whoever paid your wages, wasn’t it; thank God she’d gone down that route—and had been tense ever since, awaiting the outcome. Then there was her confession about Karen also wanting to take over the patch.

What a mess, but she’d rather this mess than one involving her to the point where she met a bad end. Survival, self-preservation, was uppermost in her mind, and she’d trample over whoever to ensure she remained safe. Loyalty to a friend meant jack shit when you risked being killed, and she had a lot of years left to live, thanks.

She swung out of bed a bit too enthusiastically, going giddy (damn her age). At the window, she opened the thermal-lined curtains and leant on the sill that was chilly from the winter freeze, the inside bottoms of the three panes covered in condensation, the outside smiles of snow. It still coated the ground, chunky flakes coming down. People had tromped through it on the paths yesterday, some kids fucking about with snowball fights, and the fresh fall had created mounds over and beside the footprints.

Tyre tracks imprinted the road, appearing dirty in places where the tarmac peeked through. Snow always changed this street, hiding the imperfections, the rubbish mounting up in the front gardens, giving the illusion it was like all the other, better roads on the estate. Come the thaw, the reality would be all too prevalent again: the council needed to do a clean-up; new windows, doors, the potholes fixed in the pavements, and people directed to the tip instead of using their gardens.

Why am I living here again?

Because you love the house.

She shivered and made to turn for the bathroom but caught sight of Sharon Barnett hammering on Karen’s door, the orange light of a lamppost shining on her. Christ, she was up early. A barny at this time of the morning didn’t bode well, if that was what the door-whacking was about; Sharon appeared angry enough. Or had Karen been dealt with and Sharon was panicking at not hearing from her?

Brenda shrugged, thinking she’d better get showered and dressed rather than go and see what the hassle was. Cassie would tell her soon enough.

Had something happened already, though? Cassie was obviously okay, not dead, she’d messaged Brenda—or had Karen killed her, stolen her phone, and pretended to be her? That would be weird but not surprising; Karen would want all of Cassie’s contacts, wouldn’t she.

“For fuck’s sake.”

Brenda slung her dressing gown on over her grey fleece pyjamas with polar bears on them, stuck the burner phone in a pocket, and ran downstairs—well, as much as someone her age could run when they smoked as many fags as she did. She shoved her feet into her fluffy boot slippers, lined with that teddy bear fur, and opened the door, switching on the outside light. Assaulted by the cold, she moved the dial on the heating to get it fired up and stepped onto her path. She’d cleared it yesterday, but it was blanketed now, the snow coming down like a maniac overnight.

“Fuck’s sake again!” Annoyed, what with the pressure of Cassie coming round sitting on her shoulders, and no ciggie or caffeine yet, she took a deep breath. “Sharon?” It came out as a whisper-shout, phlegmy. She coughed to clear her throat. “Sharon!”

The woman in question spun from Karen’s door and looked across. “She’s not answering—the door or her phone. She always answers me.”

Dread seeped into Brenda’s belly, despite knowing Karen was going to get her comeuppance—it was still a shock when reality hit, even with forewarning. “Maybe she’s having a lie-in.”

The suggestion could be plausible. Cassie might not have offed Karen yet—and she planned to. She’d said so, something like: ‘She’ll be dealt with in the usual way.’ That meant Marlene the Mincer.

Christ Almighty.

Sharon shook her head. “No. That’s not like her, you know it isn’t.”

“Have you two had a falling out or something?” Brenda wrapped her dressing gown fronts around her and held them in place with a cuddle, tucking her fists beneath her armpits. God, she should have just minded her own bloody business. She could be drinking a brew and smoking by now, the radiators clonking while they heated. “Come over here, will you? We don’t need the whole street listening.”

Sharon—reluctant by the look of it—tromped from Karen’s door and up Brenda’s path, the snow creaking beneath her flimsy red slippers, the open-front kind. Was she mental coming out in those or what? Her toes were red from the cold, the ends an alarming